i'll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)
The sun beating down upon his brow is still just as foreign as it had been two days ago upon his first arrival to this isolated building, and yet, Clover finds that he no longer minds the heat. The hat certainly helps, though.
He squints against the light shining with reckless abandon, skirting freshly-painted and washed walls with care, desperate to stay in the shade for just a moment longer. He does not know how well he has done, nor how long this clean, immaculate wall will last; with the rain and snow and sun all in one location, he feels more out of place than ever before. This land is nothing like Solitas, nothing like Mantle and its roaring hearths and deep mines; nothing like Atlas, the city floating above, and its icy perfection. He does not know the four seasons. The thought of experiencing all of them alone frightens him.
Still, he is more than happy to give it a try. There is not much he remembers of the late owner of this farm. What he does remember is sweet, a gnarled hand ruffling his hair, carving wood with a whittling knife while Clover bounces upon a bony knee. Those carvings were lovely, small and quaint with no real value aside from the memories. Clover has kept every single whittled piece his grandfather had ever gifted him anyways.
The idea of being completely on his own is still a little mindboggling. As he glances down the country road, the cracking pavement stretching on for miles into the distance in the flat countryside, that glimmer of fear begins to fester within his heart. The flat land is only broken up by one communications tower, the hint of modernity unsettlingly obvious, unnatural, in the otherwise rural landscape.
He does not know how to farm; he was raised to fight, to battle. That has all changed in recent weeks, however; the mere thought of combat sends a spark of pain up his spine from his left knee, though. For the nth time, he wonders why he did not accept the offer to receive a prosthetic. Those thoughts are quickly shoved away nonetheless, for he does not know what answers await him, nor does he know if he is strong enough to face the truth.
There is too much hurt still within him to face the truth. Not here. Not all alone.
But growing things, cultivating the earth and tilling the soil and being a creator rather than a destroyer- that idea is enticing, and with the farm now in his possession, he is up to the task. He has learned his lesson and sports his grandfather's old straw hat; no more shall he allow this sun, so much more powerful here than in Atlas, to burn his skin. He is ready to dig and to grow and to sustain a peaceful life for himself, for the Grimm do not come near this place, and for that, he is grateful.
He shuffles over to the back of the house. Right against the back of his new home is a small flower bed, one which Clover has vague plans of- the back of the house receives the most sunlight, and he can imagine tall stalks of sunflowers chasing the sun's rays. Perhaps he shall plant roses- his mother loves roses, although they rarely grow upon Solitas. He knows that daffodils are pretty, too, although he has only seen them in photographs. He would like to cultivate some himself.
Beyond the flower bed is the private vegetable patch. Clover counts his blessings each time he looks upon it, for his grandfather has left him detailed instructions on everything he could ever need to know about growing his own sustenance. He is not worried about surviving the winter. He shall find a way to thrive, as long as he follows orders. He is a military man- was a military man- and he shall survive.
His eyes rise, looking beyond the small yard into the distance. On the west side, there are fields that all now sit in Clover's name, but they are overrun with weeds and uninvited guests. Tools to fix that are in the small shed beside the vegetable garden in case he should like to restore this farm to a functioning property, but Clover does not wish to prosper; he simply wants to live, so he shall let those fields go, shall allow the birds and snakes and mice and hares to build their nests and burrows, to frolic in those fields as they were always meant to do.
On the east side of his lands, however, is the forest. The trees confuse him, for he knows in his grandfather's youth that the man could have easily torn it all down to create more land. However, as he looks upon the maze-like trees, he can tell; the trunks are thick, gnarled roots growing deep into the ground, the canopy above dense with intertwining branches and leaves and life. These trees are too old now. Clover is not meant to touch those trees.
He shall, however, explore them. There is something alluring about the forest which he cannot name, but he finds his footsteps wanting to veer into the dense foliage every time his green eyes land upon even greener flora; thus far, he has been successful in resisting that urge, but he has no main mission for the day as he has had in the past few days while fixing up the house. Now, he is free to explore.
For a moment, he pauses before stepping inside. Glancing up at the sky, he lets out a tiny sigh, a rueful smile crossing his lips; the motion stings with taut, burnt skin upon the apples of his freckled cheeks, but he does not mind. Brothers above, what have I gotten myself into?
Just as quickly, he snorts, shaking his head and shoving away the immediate sadness which ensues. They are not listening, he reminds himself. It's not as if there's even a large temple nearby where I can worship or offer prayer. They have better things to do than look out for me.
His leg aches. He ignores it.
As he walks into the treeline, however, he is immediately greeted by a strange sight; a clearing, just a few metres in, formerly blocked from view thanks to the thick line of trunks surrounding it, sits just a few long paces away from his shed. He frowns, stepping forward, running callused fingertips upon the tall, wizened trunks as he approaches the back of the clearing.
There is a pedestal here. It is empty, but the stone is raised, too flat and smooth and precise to be natural. It is almost as if it could house a small shrine.
…there's nowhere else to offer worship nearby.
He bites his lip furtively. He does not want to believe in the gods any longer, not after they have proved that they can so callously abandon loyal believers such as he in their greatest times of strife. However, a lifetime of faith is not easily forgotten, and soon, he is carrying wood from inside his home's foyer to build a small shrine atop this raised outcropping. At his waist is his tool belt; he carries a bag of nails and his hammer, a saw to cut off the excess, and begins to build.
The toil is tiring. He does not mind, quietly working with the occasional whistled tune to break the vague silence. He grimaces as he hears birds fly off with every strike of his hammer. He does not wish to frighten them, but there is little he can do.
At last, the shrine is complete. With a slanted roof, it is a simple, four-poster structure that sits upon a foundation so weak any errant wind could have knocked it over if the trees had not protected the pristine stillness of the clearing. Clover laughs at his own handiwork, but he does not feel ashamed of his day's efforts, for he does not yet know how to build. Perhaps when he is more experienced, he shall fix it up. The heart is what matters for a first attempt, and heart, he has plenty.
With that in mind, he goes back to the main house, returning to the makeshift, wobbly shrine with a small plate of fruit and bread. Kneeling before it, he presses a hand to his heart and closes his eyes. "It is not very good, but I hope you shall like this shrine," he says. For a moment, he wonders whether he should dedicate this place to the Great Brothers; he quickly rescinds that thought, however. There are many gods. The Brothers are not the only ones in need of worship, right?
He waits for one minute, and then, another. There are no signs of any deities bestowing blessings upon him; at least, he thinks that is the case. Either way, the sun is sinking further below the horizon, and through the leaves above, he can see the skies shifting from rosy oranges to violet-tinted magentas. He is weary. It is time to rest. So, he stands, stretching out a kink in his back and massaging his aching thigh, ready to turn in for the night.
However, before he leaves, a fluttering of leaves and the flapping of wings catches his eye. Turning to look at the shrine, he finds a large crow sitting upon the stone, pecking at the few berries which Clover has offered. It trills happily, swallowing them one by one, all the while keeping its shockingly-red eyes fixated upon Clover.
Clover smiles, holding out a hand to the bird. To his surprise, it hops towards him, quickly rubbing its head in Clover's outstretched palm; Clover pulls his hand back in wonder only to reach out for more, for he has never actually touched a crow before, but the short feathers against his palm are light and fluffy and delightful. The crow, unfortunately, does not respond in kind, eating the rest of the food upon the pedestal out of his reach.
Clover sighs, sinking back with creaking knees upon his haunches. "Well, I guess it was worth a try," he murmurs ruefully. "If you want to use it as a nest, that's fine too, buddy. Just don't eat stuff from my vegetable patch."
"Do you think you can restrict me?"
Clover blinks, staring at the crow. Its beak is opened, but there is no way that the bird has spoken. "I haven't eaten today," Clover whispers to himself. "I'm hearing things. I need to go eat."
The crow flaps its wings, but it is no normal motion; each movement sends gales of cutting against Clover's face, whipping his hair out of his eyes, threatening to knock the hat off of him cleanly if his hand moves away from the top of the patched straw. The same voice thunders as the bird flies to the gabled rooftop, "Is this how you treat a god?"
Oh no. Clover pauses as the wind dies down, blood freezing in his veins, pulling off his hat and holding it in his hands, feeling straw run coarsely against his fingertips. He does not see anything in front of him aside from the crow; nothing but the empty shrine, the woods echoing around him, promising no help nor safety from the speaker lurking in the plane between, its spirit in corvid form.
"I meant no disrespect," he breathes, turning a sunburnt, freckled face upwards towards the canopy. "I apologize."
"Why have you built this shrine?" the voice booms, too ethereal to even comprehend.
Shuddering at the intensity of it all, Clover shrinks for a moment. Then, he shakes his head, straightening his back, holding his chest up proudly. He was a soldier. He has fought greater demons- no god can scare him now. "It looked like a place of worship."
"And you offer it to me?"
"If you wish." The bird pauses, tilted its head, staring at Clover with such ferocity he wants to flee. He stands his ground. "Everyone deserves a home. Even gods."
"…I see your truth." The voice is different now, softer; it is gruff and coarse and deep, the voice of a man who has seen too much and loved too little; the voice of a man who knows the fleeting touch of happiness and the bittersweet taste of a pyrrhic victory. "…Thank you. What is your name?"
"Clover."
"A good luck charm." The crow seems to laugh as it caws. The voice adds, "I shall remember that."
And that is that. Suddenly, the world is too bright to comprehend, and he shuts his eyes reflexively. A gentle caress of wind upon Clover's cheeks is all that remains of the booming voice, tenderly soothing the sunburns from which he has foolishly suffered; for a moment, he closes his eyes, visualizing the red sunspots behind his eyes turning into crimson irises set in pale skin, the shadow of trees turning into dark hair, the wind nothing but the cooling touch of soft fingers upon his face, filling him with a sense of peace he has not felt for a long, long time.
The moment the wind dies down and the light disappears, the burns no longer sting, the bird is gone, and Clover's heart is left warm, standing before his makeshift shrine for a kind, gentle god.